


Serial (RP Format; both POVs)

by sherlockholmeslives



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Sadism, Serial Killer, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmeslives/pseuds/sherlockholmeslives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only real downside was how long he anticipated it taking to get the blood from under his fingernails.</p><p>(The is the alternate version with both points of view; it is the same story as http://archiveofourown.org/works/383490, but includes John's side of the story as well.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Serial.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/383490) by [sherlockholmeslives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmeslives/pseuds/sherlockholmeslives). 



> (AU set after TBB but before TGG.
> 
> John was written by blackratchet.)

_Beautiful evening..._

 

Sherlock unlocked the door to 221B, still smiling to himself. It had been far too long since his last 'outing', but tonight has almost made it worth the wait.

The only real downside was how long he anticipated it taking to get the blood from under his fingernails.

-

John was upstairs just about to change his clothes when he heard the door open. Sherlock must have returned from where ever he'd run off to while John was out with Stamford and Sarah. He dropped his pajamas back on the bed, deciding to check in with Sherlock before changing, and left the room.

He started talking at the top of the stairs and headed down, "Well I hope your plans for the evening went better than mine did. Sarah ended up heading home ill."

-

Sherlock looked up quickly at the sound of movement, warily, schooling himself to nonchalance before quickly trying to check his clothing before John came more clearly into view.

"Successful, as it goes. Nothing particularly interesting, though." He started walking again, shucking off his coat and jacket, leaving them over the back of his chair before making his way to the kitchen to wash his hands

-

John made it to the bottom of the stairs and into the living room just as Sherlock was heading for the kitchen. He did a double take once Sherlock had walked past him, at the blood on Sherlock's jaw, and he sighed, "What on earth were you out doing this time? I certainly hope you didn't sustain more than the one injury."

-

Sherlock remarked, continuing to walk past.

"Just following a couple of leads," he said fluidly, following John's eyeline with an internal splutter of annoyance at his own incompetence. Turning on the water, he washed his hands, cleaning his jawline at the same time.

Hoping beyond hope that there was nothing -else- he'd missed /shouldn't have assumed John would be out, -stupid- Sherlock/, he scraped what he could from under his fingernails before turning off the water and turning back to his flatmate.

"You look tired. Shouldn't you be in bed?"

-

John followed Sherlock into the kitchen and leaned against the counter as the other washed his hands, wondering idly if he ought to grab his med kit for the cut on Sherlock's jaw. It hadn't been bleeding as much as he'd expect from a head wound, so maybe it was minor enough to let Sherlock take of it.

 

He sighed internally, as he scanned the other man for more damage, "Your elbow too, looks like. Did you get in a fight? This is why I'm not in bed, you see. I almost was, but I knew better than to go to bed without checking on you." John shoved away from the counter and headed toward the bathroom, "I'll get my med kit and have a look."

-

Sherlock sighed audibly. "That is completely unnecessary!" he called after the other, quickly taking the available time to check himself over more thoroughly, clean his hands a little better.

 _A doctor, why does he have to be a -damn- doctor?_ Sherlock turned from the sink, allowing himself a short moment of panic while John was absent. Options were severely limited; four decent choices at most. Killing John was out of the question ( _too many questions/actually do like the man_ ) (three), he wasn't as stupid as most and would recognise the evidence when confronted with it ( _lying is out_ ; two).

So. Run before John comes back from the bathroom, or let it unfold.

( _Running was never an option._ )

-

"No. Definitely necessary. But it wouldn't be a problem if you'd just stay out of trouble, Sherlock."

John came back into the kitchen with his kit and set it on the table, gesturing for Sherlock to sit in the chair, but as he did so he noticed the very apparent lack of injury where the blood had been on Sherlock's face and he frowned. "What's this, then? You don't even have a cut."

-

Sherlock thought for a short moment replying, eyes averted and then looking up to John as he sat down on the offered chair.

"It wasn't my blood," he offered simply, watching John's eyes almost eagerly to see how long it would take for him to realise something was 'off'.

-

_Not his blood. For some reason that's not really a relief..._

John's fingers tapped on the med kit in thought for a few seconds, his face trying desperately to pick an expression to settle into as his jaw clenched slightly, "And whose -was- it?"

Sherlock sighed in thought for a moment, exaggeratedly looking up to the ceiling as if it contained answers. "Smithers, Smith, Sumners..." he mused, quite enjoying the fleeting microexpressions crossing John's face, a little more than he should.

"A Mr C H Suldari," he answered, looking back to John without offering further explanation.

-

Sherlock's attitude was making John eerily uncomfortable. He swallowed heavily as Sherlock mockingly grasped for the name, and met Sherlock's gaze when the other man looked back down from the ceiling. The room seemed awfully small all the sudden, and John was having a difficult time coming to terms with why. John tried to ignore the sudden weight in his gut and he forced his fingers to still on the med kit, keeping his voice level, "Sherlock, -why- do you have 'A Mr. C. H. Suldari's' blood on your face?"

-

Sherlock fell serious again. Crunch time was more anxiety provoking than he'd expected. Then again, he'd not told anyone ( _anyone_ ) about this before.

"He spilled it. I was careless in cleanup."

 

John blinked before stepping back and slowly sinking into the chair at the other end of the table.

"'He spilled it'...what exactly does that mean, Sherlock?" John's voice was thready and he cleared his throat, momentarily unable to process or accept Sherlock's words, but he still met his eyes.

_He's not serious... This is... No, he's -not- serious._

-

Sherlock swallowed, taking a few moments to find appropriate(?) words.

"Well, it's pleasantly reassuring that your gun remains locked in the drawer of your dresser," he started with a short, nervous (unexpected) laugh.

He swallowed again, mouth suddenly drier than he remembered.

"Sally was right," he continued eventually. "Well, partially. I'm not actually a psychopath."

-

The room had shrunk to only Sherlock and himself, and while the bile seemed to be threatening to come burning up his throat, John couldn't make himself look away from Sherlock's face. At the mention of the gun, John felt a sharper pang of panic (disbelief, horror?) and actually wished that he had the comfortable weight tucked in the back of his trousers right now, if only for the assurance that Sherlock didn't actually have it instead.

John gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles went white, seemingly frozen in place, "How- " John paused and shook his head, thinking about the conversation he'd had with Sally, "You... You get off on it... on -murdering- people? Jesus, Sherlock."

-

"Well, it's not sexual - that implication was completely unfounded," he said plainly in his own defence.

"And I don't have your gun," he said pointedly. "It's where you left it; I've not touched it."

-

John rubbed a hand across his face and licked his lips nervously. His gaze was steady but his face was ghostly pale. Sherlock's comment on not having the gun did little to calm him.

"But you still do it for -fun-? How-... How many people have you killed, Sherlock?"

- __

_Well, he's still talking. It's going surprisingly well so far._

"Fun, fending off boredom. For interest's sake. Some of them were bad people, if that helps." He leaned back in the chair a little, regarding John with complete seriousness.

_'How many people have you killed, Sherlock?'_

_  
_

"Are you sure you want me to answer that?"

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How many people have you killed, Sherlock?"

"Are you sure you want me to answer that?"

-

"No." John felt numb as the room slowly started to return to its normal size. "I suppose I don't really want to know that."

He knew he must be in shock, in denial. He should be reacting to this. This was -horrifying-. He knew it on an intellectual level, but his emotional state refused to budge from a dull aching disbelief. "Now what, Sherlock? What happens... now that I know?" He swallowed heavily, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock to stare at the table.

_What happens to -me-..._

-

Sherlock's brow furrowed at John's question.

"I've never told anyone before..." he mused. "I don't really have a precedent."

He was quiet and satisfied for a moment until he caught the expression on John's face. He frowned sharply.

"I'm not going to -kill you-, John," he admonished, the utter absurdity of the idea thick in his voice.

-

John met Sherlock's eyes again, his own tone verging on scathing as the reality of the situation finally began to sink past the surface, "I just found out my best friend's a bloody -serial killer-, excuse me if nothing seems impossible right now."

John ran his hand through his hair, trying to take deep breaths, "I can't keep this a secret, Sherlock. This is... so -far- beyond wrong. I can't..." John's thoughts were racing, his eyes flitting around the room in search of a solution as he warred with himself, "Jesus, Sherlock. What am -I- supposed to do now?"

-

"Well I don't have a -game plan-, I wasn't exactly planning on having a coming out party," Sherlock retorted spitefully.

He sat quietly for a few moments.

"As far as I see it, you're probably going to vomit soon, and then spend a few hours at least with your head reeling so much it makes you physically ill. Then you are either going to decide to keep this to yourself, or you aren't. Obviously I would prefer the former."

Any tone of jest his voice had held earlier was completely gone now, and he was serious, almost somber. Just because he didn't regret murder didn't mean he enjoyed the span of John's emotional torment. At first it had been interesting, but was growing steadily more concerning.

-

John started to feel a bit trembly in the silence that fell in the room, and the bile in his throat was definitely becoming more of a threat once Sherlock mentioned vomiting. He met Sherlock's gaze again, trying to reconcile this new facet of Sherlock with what he already thought he knew about the man. He couldn't, how -could- he? A murderer as a flatmate? John dropped his gaze and stood shakily from his chair, leaving the kitchen and heading to the bathroom without another word.

-

Sherlock stayed in the chair as John left, bringing one hand up to his mouth, chewing on his knuckle in contemplation as he waited. John was, above all else, -moral-. Sherlock hadn't considered that a failing before now.

-

John shut himself in the bathroom for almost an hour. Much to his chagrin, Sherlock was right about the vomiting. It passed pretty quickly, but John couldn't bring himself to leave the bathroom for quite a while afterward. He washed his face, and considered showering, but decided against it in the end. He finally opened the door and forced himself to walk out, still feeling hollow and completely uncertain.

-

Sherlock had moved to the couch by the time John came out of the bathroom.

"I was starting to think you'd crawled out a window..." Sherlock mused aloud as John finally walked back towards the living room.

-

John hesitated just inside the living room, before moving to sit down in his chair.

"Considered it, actually." John's voice felt odd in his throat, almost too tight still, but he tried to relax it, "But I didn't figure it'd do me much good. You'd have all my things held hostage anyway."

-

Sherlock scoffed. "-Hostage-? Good god, John. If you want to leave, I'd let you, but there wouldn't be much point."

He say up a little straighter, facing John properly.

"I have absolutely no intention of hurting you," he said sincerely. "Which I know you have no reason to believe, but it's true regardless."

-

John pursed his lips before licking them uncertainly, dropping his gaze. "That was, um, a poor attempt at humour. If I really thought you'd kill me I'd be long gone by now, sod all my belongings."

John reluctantly met Sherlock's eyes. "This still changes a -lot- Sherlock. Everything. I still don't want to believe this is true."

-

"Must have missed that. Still, the point stands." Sherlock frowned a little at himself.

He looked up to John, more sincere now the moment of admission had passed.

"It doesn't change -that- much. Everything else is the same. It was just an... Omission," he said with a half shrug.

-

"An omission. Really." The seriousness had hardened behind John's eyes again, and his voice held a sharp edge, "I can't just accept this 'omission' and carry on in the blink of an eye, Sherlock. You -kill- people, -for fun-. I just can't understand that."

John's tone grew even more disbelieving, "What do you do? Follow them down alleys? Corner them in their homes? Do you torture them? Or does that depend on how bored you are?" He was fast losing his battle to remain calm, but he desperately needed to know at least something. He hated how Sherlock suddenly felt like a stranger.

-

"Why do you keep asking questions you do - **not** \- want to know the answers for?" he asked, exasperated

 

"I don't see how knowing will help. Information thus far hasn't made is much easier; you were far happier two hours ago in complete ignorance! So how do you think a description of my M.O. would help?"

-

"I'm living with a - _serial killer_ -." John spat the words out as he shifted forward in his chair to perch on the edge of it, "If you had just found out that _I_ killed people for the hell of it, you'd be morbidly interested in the details as well."

"I'm..." John let out a ragged sigh, "I'm trying to make sense of this. That's all. I don't know what else to do."

-

"Of course I would be, _I'm_ a serial killer!" he rebutted, calming quickly as he suddenly recalled just how thin the walls were.

"Look, I will tell you if you actually want me to. But right now I'm still not sure whether you're just going to tell Lestrade first thing in the morning, so you'll have to admit I'm a little hesitant," he said with a short sigh.

"I don't know what else to do either, by the way. Like I said, I didn't plan for you to find out." He frowned at himself again, at his own stupidity. He did question, though, why he'd been so careless.

_-Had- he wanted John to find out?_

-

"I -should- tell Lestrade. I definitely should." John sounded like he was trying to convince himself of that and falling short, "You can't keep doing this. You'll get caught and they'll hang you. You came home tonight covered in blood, it certainly doesn't seem to me like you're being particularly careful."

-

Sherlock tried to stop himself smiling at the rather telling use of the word 'should' instead of 'will'.

"'Covered' is an overstatement. But yes, I agree I was careless. I was expecting you to be at Sarah's."

He leaned back on the couch, still watching John.

"You aren't as disgusted as I thought you'd be. And your concern for my getting caught is quite... unexpected," he said with a small smile.

-

John sighed, "She tried to talk me into still coming over. I suppose I should have listened..."

John let his face fall into his hands and he mumbled past his palms, "Oh I'm disgusted, Sherlock. I most certainly am. But I can't seem to reconcile flatmate-you with murderer-you. This doesn't seem real. But of course I don't want you to get caught, I..." John glanced up, letting his hands fall back to his knees, "I don't want you to keep doing this at all."

-

Sherlock listened, nodding slightly.

"And what would you do if I promised to stop?" he asked curiously, raising an eyebrow slightly.

-

John shrugged wearily, "Right now, I'm not sure whether I'd trust that promise. You could promise me anything just to keep me from telling Lestrade..." John's heart was obviously not in the protest, as he dropped his gaze before he was even finished speaking.

-

"That's fair; I could. Though if I was going to lie, I probably wouldn't have told you the 'serial killer' part," he pointed out.

-

"So, just like that, you'll be all finished murdering, just because you promise me?" John's expression was skeptical, "Somehow it doesn't seem like it could possibly be that simple."

-

"I didn't actually say I'd stop. I just said I wasn't going to lie."

He sighed a little, frowning. "And it wouldn't be that simple. It's not a -compulsion-, but..."

-

John searched Sherlock's face for any scrap of remorse, severely disheartened when he came up empty handed. "You... I can't allow you to just keep killing innocent people, Sherlock. You know me, you know I can't live with that."

-

Sherlock couldn't stop himself rolling his eyes a little, John's apparent moral elasticity becoming rather amusing again. 

"Then what if I promise to only kill slightly-or-significantly-less-than-innocent people?" he asked, finishing with a slight quirked smile. "Is 'vigilante' more acceptable?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Then what if I promise to only kill slightly-or-significantly-less-than-innocent people?" he asked, finishing with a slight quirked smile. "Is 'vigilante' more acceptable?"

John blinked at Sherlock in consternation for several seconds. The thought of condoning murder was abhorrent to him, and here Sherlock was, practically asking him to come to some sort of agreement on who Sherlock's victims would be. John felt sick again and he stood up briskly. "You know, I thought I was ready to talk about this, but I'm really not. I have no idea what to think right now..."

-

"Alright, we won't talk about it," he said in serious agreement, standing also.

"Look, it's not a nightly occurrence. I wouldn't even say it's 'regular'. And to answer your earlier questions, no I don't torture them, and it's not that many. I'm not sure if that's comforting, but I assume it would be on some level.

( _Actually, I do, and it is, but I'm hardly going to say -that-._ )

-

John appeared to take some comfort in Sherlock's words, nodding briefly at the answers to his questions, but quickly growing appalled at himself then rapidly numb again at the realization that 'not that many' murders still meant an unspecified number of people dead, and by Sherlock's hand.

"I'm going to bed." John's voice seemed small to his own ears, "We can talk later. I... tomorrow, maybe. I can't do this right now." John turned abruptly and fled upstairs.

-

Sherlock sighed again, irritated by John's grandly varying morals. At least his own 'code' was static.

After a while, he made his way to the bathroom, finally cleaning his nails like he'd wanted to originally before going to bed.

-

John slept fitfully, his rest broken by scattered and disturbing dreams, and was almost relieved when he opened his eyes and the dull glow of dawn was creeping through his window. He got up immediately, rolling his shoulder to get the feeling back in it, and without warning the events of the previous night came rushing back to him. He shut his eyes for a moment, but proceeded downstairs and straight into the kitchen to make tea.

_He's still Sherlock. He's still the same, I -know- that I know that. God, what am I supposed to do? He's my -friend-. Do people -have- serial killers for friends? Damn it, what's wrong with me?_

-

Sherlock was already in the living room, reading the newspaper, in what was probably a ridiculously domestic manner considering the reveal of the night before.

"Morning, John," he said easily, glancing up from the newspaper for a moment.

-

"Morning." John busied himself with the kettle, trying to give his nerves some form of release. He stayed in the kitchen as the water came to a boil, not wanting to venture out to the living room just yet. He was still undecided on what to do and it rankled something fierce.

He finished preparing the tea and no longer had any excuse to stall, so John gathered up the cups on a tray and brought them over to the table between the armchairs, sitting opposite Sherlock like usual. He grabbed his tea just a bit too swiftly, bringing the still too hot liquid to his lips to hide his lack of anything to say.

-

"I don't think burning your lips will help," Sherlock noted, before glancing back to the newspaper. He thought for a few moments, debating whether or not to being up the events of last night.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked after a few moments, putting the newspaper down on the table beside the tea tray.

-

John winced at the burn on his tongue and hastily drew the cup away, finally looking up at Sherlock, his poor night's rest etched clearly into the lines on his face, "I think we should. We have to, really. But I don't know where to start."

-

"If you have specific questions, I'll answer them. I think that's probably easier than trying to provide an autobiography," he offered, taking a cup of tea and blowing on it gently.

-

John held his tea cup in less than steady hands, but nodded and met Sherlock's gaze. "How long has this gone on for? When did you start?"

_I cannot believe I'm having this conversation. This still does -not- feel even remotely real._

-

Sherlock started recounting slightly hesitantly.

"As a... recreation, I suppose you could say, it's been six or seven years,"

-

John bit the inside of his lip briefly, "Okay."

He inhaled deeply, trying to absorb the information without letting it affect him. He failed, but kept speaking, "How did it start?"

-

"Well," he started, stopping to sip tea for a moment, "the first time was unplanned. I'd always been interested by the idea, but it wasn't until that initial event that I realised it was actually something I could pursue."

-

"So it was an accident the first time?" Or just an... unexpected opportunity?" John busied himself with a sip of his tea. It was still too hot as he hadn't remembered to blow on it to cool it, but he sipped anyway, needing the distraction.

-

"The latter," he replied, "If it were an accident, I don't think it would have 'counted', would it?"

-

"No, I suppose not." John set his teacup back in its saucer in his other hand, "Who was it?"

-

Sherlock blinked a couple of times,  somewhat surprised by John's question.

"Her name, although I didn't it find it out until after the fact, was Jenny Levine. She was a clerk at a brokerage firm."

-

For some reason, John hadn't been expecting it to be woman. He wasn't sure exactly why that made it seem worse, but it did. "So, you, what. Pick strangers out at random? Or...?"

-

"In that case, yes. I'd no knowledge of who she was beyond my own observations. But not as a rule; too risky. I tend to be far more careful now. There's still a degree of randomness to who it is, but I vet them first. Rules out police and armed forces, significant persons of interest and so on."

-

John closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he dropped his gaze to his teacup. "And how many people, Sherlock?" His heart was in his throat, and he really didn't want to know the answer, but he had no choice but to ask. He -had- to know.

-

Sherlock paused, stalling for a few seconds.

"More than five, less than forty," he said eventually, preferring to leave some leeway for John to take if he wished.

-

"Jesus, Sherlock," John rubbed at his face in frustration, "How -many-?"

-

"Thirty-one as of last night," Sherlock replied, not stalling this time. "Suldari was my thirty-first."

-

John was right. He really hadn't wanted to know. He felt the blood drain from his face, what little there had been left there in the first place, and he met Sherlock's gaze tentatively, "That's...a lot." He finished lamely, completely at a loss for what else to say.

-

Sherlock offered a small smile for a moment, before realising he was not being congratulated and settling back into a more acceptable expression.

"It is. But over seven years it's not that large a number."

-

"Even -one- murder is too many, Sherlock." John can't seem to put much feeling behind his words, the numbness steadily overtaking him again, "But over -thirty-? Jesus Christ. I should... do... something." John tapered off the end of the sentence so it ended up being barely audible.

He couldn't turn Sherlock in. Even if he could stomach the thought of Sherlock hanging for this (which he couldn't, God help him, he -couldn't-) he had no proof of Sherlock's crimes anyway and John was certain there wouldn't be anything remaining that he could use as evidence. But how could he live with knowing the truth? He felt completely trapped.

_Damn it, there's nothing I can do..._

-

"If you need a reason not to turn me in, just tell yourself you're afraid  of me," he offered lightly. "I'm sure your conscience would forgive you."

-

"I'm not..." John chewed the inside of his cheek for moment. To say he wasn't at least a little bit scared would be a bold faced lie, of course. He wasn't necessarily afraid for his life right this second, but he -had- been scared initially the night before. What would Sherlock do, if John tried to turn him in? John swallowed thickly.

"I don't want to turn you in," John shook his head, the the tumult in his head quieting by a fraction as he forced himself to struggle with the decision.

-

Sherlock's lips turned up into a smirk at John's announcement. "Then I think that's something we can both be happy with."

Forcing back the smile, he took another taste of tea before it back on the tray for a while. "Did you have any other questions?"

-

John didn't really feel happy, more sick and a bit shaky, but he wasn't going to argue the point. He set his tea back down as well, not trusting his stomach to keep anymore down.

"I have hundreds of questions." John sighed and slumped back in his chair, "But I don't know if I can stomach the answers."

John paused. He wasn't sure how to phrase his next words. "I've killed people, too,  Sherlock. But out of necessity." The room seemed to start shrinking again, "And I struggled with it every time.  How can you not care?"

-

Sherlock pursed his lips a little, genuinely considering his answer.

"I don't know. It just never bothered me. Death has always just been another event which occurs like any other. I imagine, if I lost someone of importance, I would care significantly about -that-, but people I have no ties to... I just don't."

He watched John, aware that that probably wasn't the answer he wanted to hear.

-

"What about the victims' families? -They- care significantly when their spouse or daughter or nephew never comes home." John's voice was full of disbelief. He had a hard time fathoming this lack of empathy.

-

"Yes, but I'm not them," he said simply as if it answered everything. "I think that's more or less the meaning of 'unempathic', isn't it? I don't feel pain which isn't my own."

-

John gave him a wilted look. "It's really that easy for you. Good God, Sherlock."

"What... happens, now that I know? You'll just carry on like normal and I'll just keep my mouth shut?"

-

"Well, it's not that easy -practically-," he countered, before deciding now was not the right time to complain about the difficulties of being a successful serial killer.

"Like I said last night, I don't know what happens now. I suppose that's one option, though."

-

"What other options -are- there? I don't want to turn you in and you don't seem at all likely to stop. Seems like we've no choice but keep on as if I didn't come home last night."

-

He chewed his lip, thinking.

"I suppose you're right. Then the question is, whether or not you wish to be aware of what I do in the future. I would assume not, as it would play havoc with the 'keeping on' plan."

-

"I don't know. Maybe it would be better if you -did- tell me." John looked around the room, half hoping some sort of answer would crawl out of somewhere. "Otherwise I'll just be consumed with the uncertainty of what you're doing whenever I'm not with you."

-

Slowly, Sherlock nodded. "Fair enough. I shall... keep you informed, then. After the fact, though; I doubt the knowledge that I was -planning- a murder would particularly help your conscience."

-

John stared at Sherlock for a long moment, his expression conflicted.

_How can I possibly be considering this to be an acceptable compromise?_

"I want to know -right- after. And don't be so careless, Sherlock. I can't go through this to keep you out of prison if you're only going to get yourself caught anyway."

_I am a selfish bastard. A selfish, -selfish-, bastard._

-

He grinned at that, then nodded. "The carelessness was new. Although... I think it was more related to you than to getting caught in general," he added as an afterthought.

-

John's brow furrowed slighly as Sherlock's words interrupted his self-beratement. "Why would it be related to me?"

-

Sherlock bit his lip slightly before speaking. "I think... I wanted to find out how you'd react. It wasn't intentional; if it was I'd have planned a far better conversation, but... I think I wanted you to know," he mused, still processing the idea himself.

-

John surprised himself by chuckling lightly, "You just like my attention, don't you?" He shook his head in overwhelmed, but weary, exasperation and his expression sobered again quickly, "As far as 'best mate is a murderer' conversations go, I guess ours probably went fairly well. I think I must still be in shock."

-

Sherlock chuckled lightly, a tinge of embarrassment coming through at John's assessment.

"It certainly could have gone far worse," he agreed, trying to remain somber despite his current good mood.

"You probably are. Which is to be expected, really. I did mean it, though; I wouldn't hurt you. I do have -some- feelings, after all."

-

"I know you do." John frowned down at his cold tea. His stomach was feeling better, but not quite good enough to bother getting up to make a fresh cup, even if he wanted some excuse to bustle about and busy himself with something, -any-thing.

"I'm more terrified of the -idea- of your being a serial killer than I am of the fact that you actually are one." John rubbed a hand over his face with a heavy sigh, "Yes, this is most definitely shock. I'm not even making sense to myself anymore."

-

Sherlock laughed softly at John's utter lack of reasoning.

"Well, if it helps, I'm a very good one," he offered, with no small amount of pride.

-

"If you haven't been caught in seven years, then yes. You must be -very- good." John's tone was carefully neutral but his controlled expression flickered slightly when he let his hand fall from his face, "You're... more than a little mad, you know."

His words were laced with slight concern, and perhaps grudging and timid affection, more than anything else, but were still mostly devoid of inflection.

-

Sherlock smiled warmly at the 'mad' comment.

"But you knew that before yesterday, John," he pointed

-

"I suppose I did, didn't I." It wasn't a question.

"So this happens, what, every couple months? What do you-" the question escaped unbidden, "-do with the bodies?"

-

He nodded at the first question. "It varies, but yes, between one and three months on average."

John's second question was unexpected. Sherlock swallowed; this was a level of detail he'd not anticipated getting into, at least not yet.

"Depends on the method. I don't have a strict MO; I've intentionally avoided one. Some are buried, some are burned, some are in the Thames. Others are set up as unrelated crimes. The last are the most satisfying, I admit."

-

John felt his face flush in the few seconds that Sherlock paused. He hadn't meant to ask that, he hadn't meant to ask anything else ever, really, but it seemed as the brunt of his initial horror ebbed slightly, his morbid curiosity had stepped up to fill the space. He decided on a whim to indulge it just a bit further. He was already damned, after all. What could it hurt?

"Has Lestrade ever asked for your help on a case where _you_ were the murderer?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Has Lestrade ever asked for your help on a case where you were the murderer?"

Sherlock smirked, trying to keep it hissed but failing, pale eyes almost twinkling in remembrance.

"Twice. It was... Well, incredibly stressful the first time, but hilarious the second."

-

This was not sating John's curiosity. It was only stoking it, "Don't say it like -that-," John huffed, his scolding tone half ruined by his obvious, if chagrined, interest, "Now you have to tell me -why- it was hilarious."

-

"Well the second time, I was reasonably well-practiced already. I was quite confident there was no way I could be caught, it was... brilliant," he said with a grin. "Usually I follow things quietly to make sure I'm in the clear, either the missing person's case or the unsolved murder case. That time..." he remembered almost wistfully, "to be right there, at -my own crime scene-, telling the police who to look for... You have to understand the draw of -that-," he finished, still failing to hold back a grin.

-

John listened intently. It was ( _mesmerizing/transfixing/horrifying_ ) captivating hearing Sherlock relate the account. He shook himself a little once he picked up on the half-implied query in Sherlock's last sentence.

"I can certainly see why -you're- drawn to it. But I'm not so sure that -I- would be." John bit his lip, hoping his tone had stayed steadier than it had sounded in his own head.

-

Sherlock's attitude changed slightly, and he cocked his head a little. "You never know... Maybe you would be."

-

"No, I -wouldn't-, Sherlock." John didn't meet Sherlock's eyes, suddenly uncomfortable under the other man's scrutiny, "Why would you think that?"

-

Sherlock shook his head, dismissing the thought. "No reason at all," he reassured with a simple grin, without implication.

"Was there anything else you want to know?" He picked up the cup of tea again, sipping at it easily now it can cooled.

-

John sighed, "I'm having a hard time -not- asking questions, in case you haven't noticed. You're the one that accidentally let me find you out. Anything you -want- me to know?"

-

He cocked his head in thought, closing his eyes for a moment. "I... I don't know. I don't think so. Then again, I didn't realise I wanted you to find out until after it happened."

"Oh, that's a question;" he started, looking back to John. "If I get caught, care to write my biography?" he asked with a smirk.

-

John's eyebrows rose at Sherlock's question. His first instinct was to dismiss it out of hand. He didn't want to think about the chances of Sherlock getting caught, and his expression portrayed that clearly. But when he looked a bit closer at Sherlock's face, he stopped the words before they left his mouth, and changed tack.

"I'd not be much of a blogger if I passed up that chance, now would I?" John's expression was verging on the shadow of a grudging smile, but he didn't quite give into it all the way.

-

Sherlock chuckled, absolutely pleased with John's answer. "Not that will happen any time soon. Most likely a retirement package," he added as reassurance.

"I have to say, I am rather delightfully pleased with how you're taking this. You've surprised me," he said with a warm smile.

-

John gave him a look that clearly implied 'preferably never', but he couldn't help but notice it was getting more difficult to stifle his own smile with Sherlock laughing so easily again.

"-You're- the one doing the surprising. I'm the one desperately trying to come to terms with said surprising." John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, "At least I'm not feeling ill any more."

-

"Good. I don't like making you sick; I'm not -that- immoral," he said with a small smirk before finishing his tea.

-

John raised an eyebrow at that comment. It felt oddly complimentary, and John didn't know how to feel about that at the moment. He forced himself to his feet, grabbing the tea tray and gesturing for Sherlock to hand his empty cup over. "Hungry?"

-

Sherlock placed the cup on the tray, then considered for a moment before nodding. "Do we have toast?"

_Still going to make me breakfast. That -is- surprising._

-

John nodded and left for the kitchen, "Unless the bread fell victim to one of your experiments when I wasn't paying attention, then yes, we should definitely have toast." The irony of John's choice of wording was not lost on him. "Honey or jam? Or just butter today?"

-

"Are we going to start using a series of killing related puns as a private joke, now?" he asked, raising an eyebrow with a poorly restrained grin. "Now I just wish it was lunchtime; then I could say 'I could murder a sandwich'."

"But, jam please."

-

John couldn't help but let out a laugh at that as he got out the bread. "I have to deal with this somehow, don't mock my coping mechanisms."

-

"But if I don't mock you, how will you feel comfortable?" he asked with a short chuckle. "If I suddenly treated you -nicely- all the time, I suspect you would grow incredibly paranoid, incredibly fast. Thus, mocking."

-

"You have a point." John groped around in the fridge for the jam, not stopping to notice whether there were questionable items hidden among the food or not, "But you are typically nicer to me than other people. Should that make me paranoid at all?"

-

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "No," he replied simply. "That's just because I like you. There's nothing sinister in it."

-

John let out a perplexed grunt, popping the bread down in the toaster. "Every once in a while I stop and think '-How- is this my life?' I think I'll be having a lot more of those moments from now on."

-

"But you aren't bored," he pointed out. "So that's good."

 _He's actually making breakfast..._ Sherlock thought with no small amount of disbelief, watching John in the kitchen.

-

John shot a weary, wry look in Sherlock's direction. "No, not bored. I'll just live every day on tenterhooks that something terrible will happen and you'll get caught and imprisoned and hanged and my life will fall apart. But thank -god- I won't be bored."

-

Sherlock's brow furrowed, the depths of John's concern far more significant than he'd expected.

"The idea bothers you that much...?" he asked quietly, meeting John's eyes.

-

John met Sherlock's gaze for a few flustered moments before turning away hurriedly when the toast popped up, speaking over his shoulder just loud enough to be heard, "Of course it bothers me, Sherlock. How could it not?"

-

He found an odd smile creeping onto his lips. "Well, you just found out I've killed over thirty people in the last seven years, and your primary concern is my wellbeing, and how my absence would affect you if I was caught. That is surprising. It's... sweet."

-

John stopped to grip the edge of the counter, hanging his head for a moment with a sigh. He shook himself after a moment and straightened, grabbing the finished toast and heading back to hand Sherlock his plate.

"I did kill a man to save your life within 48 hours of meeting you, or have you forgotten?" John met Sherlock's gaze pointedly with a small smile of his own, "We've never exactly made a normal pair."

-

Sherlock grinned in return as he reached for the plate, holding John's gaze just slightly longer than was necessary. "I've not forgotten. It's a fond memory," he said with a smirk, taking the plate and setting it on his lap.

-

John maintained the eye contact, and half laughed, "Fond. Of -course- you'd think of it that way." John moved to sit with his own plate and began eating, dropping his eyes to his food, mind wandering.

-

"Well, you killed someone for me. Even I've never killed anyone for someone _else_ ," he said with a fond smile before picking up the toast, turning it around with his fingers a few times before biting the corner.

-

John's attention flicked back to Sherlock's face, "I might have been a doctor in the army, but I _did_ see action. Killing people for someone else is war in a nutshell. " John shrugged a shoulder, just a touch embarrassed and unsure why, "If someone hadn't tried to kill -me-, I wouldn't be here right now. It's odd to consider."

-

"It is odd. Suddenly there seems to be a lot of death in the room," he noted, his tone neutral, observant.

"Would it be heartless to say I was grateful you were shot?

-

John's thoughtful expression lightened and he smiled a noticeably more relaxed smile at Sherlock's last words, "A bit. But coming from you, it doesn't bother me."

-

"I suppose it is rather in keeping with my character, isn't it?" he noted with a small laugh before taking another bite of toast.

-

John swallowed his mouthful of toast quickly in order to object, almost choking on an errant crumb in the process. He coughed it out of the way and finally managed to speak, "You're not heartless -all- the time, don't make it sound like you are. You were just commenting on how sweet my reaction apparently was, that hardly sounded heartless to me."

-

Sherlock chuckled lightly. "True. It was sweet, though."

"How many people would you say you killed in Afghanistan, then?" he asked curiously.

-

John smiled a bit sheepishly. He still hardly understood his own reaction, but if Sherlock wanted to think it was endearing, John supposed he didn't mind.

John sat up a bit straighter at Sherlock's question. He hadn't been expecting it, after all. "Um... Realistically, maybe seven or eight? I doubt more than ten. It's not really easy to tell when everyone around you is shooting all at once and at the same targets. I was paying more attention to getting the wounded out."

-

"How did it make you feel?" he asked, not even trying to resist the curiosity the subject drew from him.

-

John wasn't sure why it seemed so much easier to talk to Sherlock than it did to talk to his therapist, but the words came without effort, "I didn't want to kill them, but I certainly didn't want to die instead. It... felt good to be alive, after. More so than usual. More real."

-

Sherlock smiled, almost -proud- of John's response.

"We aren't all that different, I suppose..." he mused before taking another small bite of toast.

-

John blinked at Sherlock for a moment before resuming eating. He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed, before speaking.

"I never thought we -were-." John said quietly, staring thoughtfully at his plate, "But I'll still never remember killing as being 'fun'. It was necessary. It was part of my job, but that's all it was. Same when I killed the cabbie."

-

"I know," continued Sherlock, toast held in midair as he spoke, "but you aren't like normal people, either."

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know," continued Sherlock, toast held in midair as he spoke, "but you aren't like normal people, either."

John's mouth quirked down in the hint of a skeptical frown, "What do you mean by that, exactly?"

-

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair with a small huff. "Nothing at all, John. You are just like everyone else. Far be it for me to question your normalcy." He took a vindictive bite of toast, childish.

-

John let out an almost long-suffering sigh, "I meant -specifically-. I already know I'm not normal, just curious why you think so. Most people think I'm no different than they are."

-

"Oh, I've no idea," he replied, thick with sarcasm, but his voice quickly returned to seriousness. "Less than twelve hours ago you found out my secret, and now we're discussing murder over toast. So either you care for me a _lot more deeply_ than you've let on, or you aren't normal."

-

"I meant -besides- the last twelve hours. Obviously I'm not reacting normally to-" John gestured vaguely at Sherlock, a faint flush creeping up his neck, " _this_."

-

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, regarding John for a moment with his head slightly cocked.

"Or, it could be both..." he supplemented quietly.

-

John inhaled deeply through his nose and held the breath for a second before letting it rush back out his mouth while he dropped his gaze, "Surely that doesn't come as much of a surprise."

-

"It does, actually," he mused quietly, turning his attention back to his toast for a few more bites.

-

"Oh." John watched Sherlock eat for a moment before taking another bite of his own toast. The room was getting far brighter as the sun came up and facing the events of the last twelve hours during the day finally made them start feeling very real to John. The toast felt thick in his throat. He set his plate down and stood to go get a glass of milk from the kitchen.

-

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, just loud enough to be heard. He was still rather distracted by John's own reveal ( _how did I miss -that-?_ ), and put his remaining toast back on the plate, too busy thinking to bother with the rest.

-

"Fine. Toast was just a bit dry." John shut the fridge and came back to set a glass of milk in front of Sherlock before sitting and taking a long drink from his own cup.

_How did he not notice? **Everyone** noticed._

-

"You had jam on it," he countered, eyebrow still raised but dropping back quickly as he placed his plate back on the table.

"I had just thought we were friends," he said coolly by means of explanation, leaving the serial killer subject alone for a while, "I hadn't realised there was more to it. I believe the correct term is 'oblivious'." It was obvious his displeased he was at having not seen something so plainly obvious (/now in hindsight, should have seen it instantly/) to everyone else.

-

_First the I'm-a-serial-killer conversation and now the I-have-feelings-for-my-best-friend conversation. Is this seriously happening right now?_

"We _have_ just been friends, Sherlock, it's fine." John set his glass down on the table and picked up the last bit of toast off his plate and stared at it before popping it in his mouth as an excuse to not say anything else for a moment.

"No, I mean, I -know- that, I just..." he started with a frown, then paused.

-

"Past tense or present?" he asked tangentially, glancing back at John.

-

John finished chewing his toast and reluctantly swallowed away his excuse for not talking. "Both? We've _been_ friends for months, and even after last night's unexpected revelation, I have no intention of losing your friendship, so we're _still_ friends."

-

"That is lovely to hear, but I was referring to the... 'fondness' I was unaware of. Given your answer though, I would take -that- to be both also..." he considered, before picking up the milk and taking a mouthful.

-

"Right, of course you were." John felt his ears heat up a bit, "Both for that too, I guess." He slipped into an awkward pause, picking at invisible lint on the arm of his chair.

-

"Hm," Sherlock hummed in thought, taking another small sip of milk before putting the glass back.

"Interesting that my hobby hasn't put you off..."

-

"I think you've desensitized me a bit with your other various hobbies." John laughed slightly, trying to keep the conversation light. He definitely hadn't planned on talking about this, ever, and now after last night... he really didn't know what to say.

-

Sherlock chuckled lightly.  "Well thank goodness I've been warming you up to it with the body parts in the fridge," he said with a wide smile.

-

John returned the smile, "I barely notice those anymore, to be honest. They've stopped phasing me. So you must be doing something right."

-

"Obviously; if last night wasn't enough to disinterest you, I would think I must be doing quite a bit right." He smirked again before picking up the newspaper again, picking up where he'd left off when John came in.

-

John laughed quietly to himself. _Typical._

He stood and grabbed the dishes carefully, leaving Sherlock's milk where it was in case he wanted more, and took them back to the kitchen, relieved to drop the conversation.

-

Once he'd finished picking through the last interesting shreds of information in the paper, he refolded it and put it back on the table yet again.

"See," he started, "now I'm struggling to think of anything other than 'I kill people are you aren't all that bothered' and 'you want to kiss me'. If you have any other questions about the former, feel free to ask them, otherwise would you think of a new topic of conversation?"

-

John finished with the dishes and was drying his hands when Sherlock spoke again. Despite his initial relief at the topic of his affection for Sherlock being dropped, he couldn't help but feel a slight pang spike through him that Sherlock didn't want to discuss it further either. But he ignored it. He was used to ignoring it.

He walked back into the living room, "I can't think of any other pressing questions for the moment. I have quite a bit to mull over. But if I think of something in the future, I'll be sure to ask. If that's okay?"

-

"Of course. I never expected it to be something I could share with anyone; you're welcome to ask anything when you wish to. I doubt you'll be able to make me uncomfortable," he said with a small smirk.

-

John nodded with a grin. "You're right about that at least."

He glanced pointedly at the newspaper, "Nothing of import, then? Seems like we've hit a dry spell this week. Lestrade had better call you with something soon."

-

He shook his head. "Nothing at all. At least tomorrow I get to play narcissist and check for an article about Suldari." He sighed a little, leaning back in the chair.

-

"Do they often make the paper?" John couldn't help but wonder if he'd read about some of Sherlock's victims without realizing it at the time.

-

"Sometimes. Depends what I do with them. Suldari will." His reply came easily, quite content to discuss this now. It was surprising how easily the ground had shifted under them; even moreso that they were both still standing.

"And yes, you've read of my work before. I don't keep a scrapbook, though, so I don't have copies of said articles."

-

Sherlock knew exactly how to pique John's interest.

_Damn it, I -was- done with questions..._

"What did you do, then, to Suldari?" John felt nervous all the sudden. This was a level of detail he wasn't sure he'd ever be prepared for. "Or should I just wait and read about it in the paper?"

-

"The paper will hardly be accurate, will it?" he asked with a tiny smirk. "He had significant debts. It will be reported as a deal with a loan shark gone sour." Sherlock paused briefly "He had his throat slit after a brief physical altercation."

Sherlock looked over, trying not to look too eager as he watched for John's reaction.

-

It wasn't as hard as John thought it would be to watch Sherlock say those words. He didn't drop his gaze when Sherlock looked over either. He could feel that the blood had drained from his face, but he could only do so much to feign complete calm.

"You cut his throat." John's voice really betrayed him, coming out almost choked. He had had more to say, but no more words came out for the moment.

-

"That was implicit in the story I just told, yes."

Sherlock looked down at his lap. "So, theoretically fine, but not practically. Noted." There was the smallest tinge of regret in his voice, almost disappointment, but he kept it as neutral as possible.

-

"No, it's um, I'm fine. Just... I wasn't expecting that visual." John cleared his throat, tone just a little flustered, "This is -completely- new for me. Cut me a little slack? I _am_ trying."

-

Sherlock nodded, lips pressed into a firm line. "Of course. Apologies."

-

"You don't need to apologize. You had his blood under your nails and on your face, I should have realized. I've only ever shot people. Doesn't really get one's hands bloody." John was already looking less peaky as the shock trickled away again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You don't need to apologize. You had his blood under your nails and on your face, I should have realized. I've only ever shot people. Doesn't really get one's hands bloody." John was already looking less peaky as the shock trickled away again.

"I never saw the appeal of guns, besides the obvious practical benefit of distance. Certainly not my preferred method." His face began to relax again as John calmed, and his speech came easier again.

-

"They serve their purpose." John's thoughts quickly drifted.

"A 'brief physical altercation'..." John's tone returned slowly to close to normal, the hint of curiosity reinstating itself, "He put up a struggle?"

-

"Oh, certainly. Just not particularly applicable to me most of the time."

He nodded at the question. "He did. Not much of one, admittedly, but enough."

-

"Have you ever gotten hurt doing it? Some victim put up more of a fight than you were expecting?" John tried to keep his voice neutral through his concern.

-

Sherlock nodded slightly more emphatically. "I have, yes. Nothing too serious as yet, but I have a few scars here and there. Was hit over the head with a frying pan, once. That was rather mortifying more than anything." He chuckled a little at the memory.

-

John tried to suppress his scowl. "That's...not comforting, but also not surprising, I guess."

"Where did you do it, then? I can't help but picture you in an alleyway, but that seems cliche even in my imagination."

-

"Well I've never come off worse than the other party," he chuckled.

"Suldari? His home. It had to look like a retribution hit, after all. Alleyways aren't all that cliche, though. I've had my share of them."

-

John's scowl deepened at that, but he didn't argue.

"His home... How long did you plan on killing him for before you went through with it? You knew quite a lot about him, it seems."

-

"I heard about him vaguely a couple of months ago, but realistically only a couple of weeks went into the planning of it. Long enough to know who might want him dead, to know he has a wife who was planning on leaving him but will now mourn his death instead, to know that he had no children, to know where he would be and when." Sherlock picked up the glass of milk, draining it before it reached room temperature and placing the glass back on the table.

-

John was surprised at how satisfied he was with that response, and he nodded, "That's good, then. Well, I mean, good on the planning. You know what you're doing, that much is apparent."

_I can't believe I'm complimenting a murderer, even if it -is- Sherlock. I really have a problem._

-

"I am nothing if not thorough. I would have been caught years ago if I didn't do it this way." The compliment was absolutely not lost on Sherlock, but he chose not to dwell on it, John's internal dialogue all too clear on his face.

-

John sat in silence for a few moments, his internal struggle taking a bit longer this time to tamp down. He was deep in thought when his phone chimed loudly on the desk and it made him jump. He laughed, shooting an almost apologetic look at Sherlock, and stood to grab it.

-

Sherlock laughed at John's nerves, fading into his own thoughts as soon as he was no longer the centre of John's attentions.

-

John opened the message as he walked back to his chair. It was from Sarah.

_Damn it, I forgot to call her after I got back last night. And what's this?_

John frowned and looked up from his phone, "I have to go in to the surgery. Sarah's still sick; she needs me to cover her shift."

-

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. You'll miss it when Lestrafe calls, though. Pity; could have been fun." He offered a small, deviant smile. "Maybe next time."

-

John's motions stilled at Sherlock's words. "You think he'll call you for this one?"

-

Sherlock nodded a little. "It's doubtful he'll see the loan shark connection right away. I may need to guide him a little."

-

John hesitated. "It's not like I could go anyway, Sherlock. Lestrade would know something was the matter. I'd mess it up somehow..."

-

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I don't think my subconscious trust in you is so deeply misplaced, John."

-

"Probably not..." John set his phone down on the arm of his chair without texting Sarah quite yet. Her shift wasn't for over an hour yet, and he needed to get ready for the day regardless.

_Regardless of what? Whether I decide to do my job, or accompany my madman of a friend to his murder victim's house? Dear God, that -should- be a non-decision._

"I'm going for a shower and to get dressed." John turned quickly to head upstairs for a change of clothes.

 -

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, noncommittal.

John was... confusing. He was supportive and interested, but simultaneously horrified. Social morals vs personal agenda? Either way, it was ridiculous.

-

John returned from his shower not much later, heading back into the living room. He was still mostly undecided on what to do. He hated the fact that a large part of him -didn't- hate the fact that he wanted to go with Sherlock. This whole situation was only getting more confounding and John couldn't seem to straighten out his own stance _at all_.

-

Sherlock glanced at John as he came back into the room, taking in his appearance a little differently than usual. Aside from all the moral nonsense, the issue (idea?) that John found him attractive was... new. Sherlock simply hadn't considered it before, but now that he _had_ , the idea seemed firmly stuck in his mind. John's hair still wet after the shower>John in the shower>John nude in the shower>John nude.

Sherlock shifted in the chair slightly, mildly surprised at how easily the train of thought was to follow.

"Go to the surgery; there will be other crime scenes," he said after a moment, getting his own mind back on track more than anything.

-

John stepped over and pressed a button on his phone still laying on the arm of his chair. Two more messages from Sarah. He winced slightly. "Are you sure? I think... I -would- go, but..." John tilted his head at his phone, "Sarah." He finished lamely, hating the fact that he's using the excuse even though he doesn't want to.

-

"I know, John. Can't disappoint the girlfriend," he said, not harshly but certainly with some intonation on the last word.

"It's work. I know. You can go."

-

John nodded, but felt guilty all the same. "It's only for six hours. I'll be back as soon as I can be. Maybe Lestrade won't even have called you by then."

-

Sherlock cocked his head in thought. "Mm, maybe. The wife should find him by midday at the latest, Lestrade should get the call straight away. He might not call me till later, though. He may even figure it out in his own, though I'm not convinced of that."

-

John nodded and grabbed his jacket, still just a little reluctantly, "Alright then. I'll be back later. Text me if you get a call from Lestrade?"

-

"How long do you expect your shift to be?" he asked, shifting his attention just enough to carry I the conversation.

-

"I should be back by three at the latest." John grabbed his phone to tap out a message to Sarah and he headed for the door to open it, "I've got to go now or I'll be late. I'll see you later?" It felt odd to be leaving for some reason and John hesitated in the doorway.

-

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, mind already on the call from Lestrade which is yet to come. Which he hoped would come. Last night was risky, riskier than usual, and he knew he would spend the next few hours mulling over it; Anderson wasn't quite as useless as Sherlock was fond of making out, and even though Sherlock knew he was good at this ( _damn near perfect_ ) there was always a chance. Then again, it wouldn't be fun if it wasn't so frightening. If it wasn't a challenge.

"Later, then," he said easily, waving John away with one hand.

-

John shut the door after only another split second, turning to walk down the stairs. He hoped he'd be able to concentrate on work today, but it wasn't feeling likely. He couldn't help the thick ball of apprehension forming in his gut at the thought of the dead man being discovered. He hailed a cab and entertained his heavy thoughts all the way to work.


	7. The Crime Scene

138 Johnstone Ave, Highgate. Meet me there. -SH

Just leaving now. Be there in maybe 20 minutes. -JW

Lestrade and co are already there. Remember to be vaguely surprised. -SH

I will do my utmost to react like usual. -JW

Was just teasing. I have the highest faith in you. -SH

That is becoming more and more apparent as time goes on. -JW

It is deserved, is it not? -SH

You could say that. I'd certainly like to think so. -JW

Then I see no problem. I've arrived; see you soon. -SH

Okay. -JW

 

John had wanted to append an 'I'm nervous' to his message to Sherlock, but ended up deciding not to. He figured that was already implied anyway. The last ten minutes to the crime scene seemed like an hour, and as soon as the cab came to a stop, John bolted from the car, hastily paying the cabbie. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and started past the crime scene tape with an air of confidence in place.

-

"Ah, John, glad you could make it," Sherlock drawled without looking up as the other man arrived. "Not that I'm required here anyway, it's utterly simple to see both method and motive." He stood, sighing softly, regarding Lestrade at his side like a puppy who refused to fetch.

-

John stopped just behind Sherlock, his heart racing uncharacteristically fast as Sherlock stood up in front of him. "Of course I made it."

John stepped around Sherlock to survey the scene, swallowing heavily but keeping all signs of anything being different off of his face. He had expected the blood. He had expected the horribly pale countenance of Suldari dead on the floor. His imagination had even, rather accurately, provided a vivid image in anticipation of the slash across the man's throat, so even that didn't come as a surprise.

What came as a shock in the end, was how it hardly felt any different from any other crime scene. He watched Sherlock lay it out for Lestrade, offering only minor medical opinions on time of death, and otherwise keeping his mouth carefully and neutrally shut until they headed back outside to hail a cab home.

-

Everything was utterly, beautifully, perfect. Sherlock kept himself completely in line until the cab was well away from the crime scene, not so much as smirking until they were only five minutes from home.

Sherlock let out a long, relieved sigh once he was far enough from Lestrade to relax, leaning his head back on the taxi's headrest and smiling broadly.

-

John kept his expression carefully blank, his gaze flicking over to Sherlock in the cab every couple minutes. The drive wasn't a long one, and when they were almost home, John's gaze crept over to Sherlock again to see the man smiling openly. The magnitude of thrill in Sherlock's expression was catching, and John found himself turning to look out the window to hide his own small, nervous-energy-fueled smile. He hadn't expected to react this way. Not in the slightest.

-

Sherlock didn't say anything for the rest of the short drive home, not wanting to risk blurting out something condemning in a semi-public place. Once the cab pulled up to Baker Street, he jumped out, almost vibrating with the thrill of it all. He let himself into the flat, bursting into the living room still grinning.

Once John had followed him inside, he turned on his heels to face him, stepping forward quickly, stopping a few paces away.

"That. Was. _Brilliant_..." he breathed, eyes wide with an almost manic energy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter contains kink and smut. You are warned.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That. Was. -Brilliant-..." he breathed, eyes wide with almost manic energy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things start getting more sexual this chapter.

John had a difficult time staying quiet in the cab and he was immensely grateful when they made it home and into the flat. He shut the door behind him, taking only a few steps into the flat before Sherlock spun around and stopped right in front of him.

 

His eyes were a bit too wide, staring at Sherlock with something akin to hesitant awe at the other man's excitement. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first, and he closed it again. He licked his lips nervously, and finally let himself laugh with a shake of his head. "That was... not what I was expecting."

-

"Oh, god..." Sherlock breathed, words falling into laughter. "You would think after thirty one times it would be less thrilling but it really isn't. And oh-, Lestrade!" He laughed again, bristling with the high. "Ahh, I feel like I'm going to fall out of my skin," he said, turning around twice on the spot for no apparent reason, coming to face John again.

"I've never been able to share this before. This is... I don't think there are words. I could kiss you, I swear." Sherlock was still grinning, and he took a couple of breaths in an attempt to calm down.

-

Sherlock's energy was infectious, and John found himself smiling at him as he almost danced on the spot, the still slightly disturbed voice in the back of his head momentarily drown out by Sherlock's happiness. It was a heady experience, sharing this with Sherlock, and it took him a moment to register what the other man had said.

He laughed and spoke in a jesting tone, "Getting away with murder makes you want to kiss me? Well if I didn't already think you were mad, I certainly do now."

-

Sherlock looked at John semi-seriously for a moment. "Actually, it rather does. Well, that's certainly new..." he said before grinning again, though there was a slightly different air to it now, slightly less mania.

-

John felt himself blush slightly and his heart seemed to be racing for an entirely different reason than before. "New for -you-, maybe."

-

"Hm. That is interesting..." Sherlock said, stepping a little closer, slowly, gauging his own reactions as well as John's as he closed the distance between them, his eyes predatory, his skin still twitching. "Should I, do you think?" he asked, his tongue dipping out to lick his lower lip tentatively. Sherlock stepped closer again, his body flush against John's, his neck craned around to breathe against John's ear.

"Just how close do you want to get to me, John...?"

-

John's breathing sounded loud in his ears as Sherlock stepped closer to him. It took quite a bit of effort for him to not close the distance between them immediately, but the look in Sherlock's face made him want to wait for Sherlock to do it. John's eyes flicked down to Sherlock's lips when he licked them, and then right back up to his eyes again.

He let out the breath he hadn't noticed he was holding when Sherlock stepped flush against him and spoke against his ear. He leaned almost imperceptibly closer into Sherlock's breath on his ear, his voice breathless. "Jesus, Sherlock, I...-"

-

"Good answer," he replied, voice breathy and low, before leaning back slightly and leaning down, arching over John as he wrapped one arm around his waist, holding him completely steady as he kissed him, suddenly and hard, possessive and needy. His body was still pressed against John's and he growled low in his throat, moving himself against John, just needing closermorenow.

-

John shivered at Sherlock's low tone, pressing against him more than willingly with Sherlock's arm around his waist. John was a little surprised at the forcefulness of the kiss, but kissed back with a moan, opening his mouth to Sherlock's tongue and bringing his own hands up around Sherlock's back.

-

Sherlock groaned again, not giving an inch of reprieve as he pressed himself against John, hip to hip as if trying to achieve osmosis. His tongue darted into John's mouth momentarily, testing the waters before probing in again, devouring lips against lips, his fingers digging into John's back, holding him hard enough to bruise.

-

John already felt like he was drowning. Sherlock's kiss was almost consuming him, but Sherlock's fingers biting into his back kept him grounded, the pain almost welcome in that capacity. Sherlock's tongue didn't stay tentative for long, and John felt himself let out a low rumble when Sherlock's tongue delved in more eagerly. John reciprocated in turn, his tongue caressing Sherlock's, his hands scrabbling over Sherlock's back as he shifted his hips against Sherlock's.

-

Mouth pressed bruisingly hard against John's, Sherlock groaned again, deep in his throat, visions of blood dancing behind his eyelids as he gave himself over to sensation completely, losing himself in the guttural sounds, unsure of who was even making them anymore. Conscious thought completely ceased to be an option as he ran his tongue over John's again, nothing but the pair of them against each other and the blood in his mind in existence.

-

John was completely taken in by Sherlock's force, the kiss turning somewhat painful as Sherlock crushed his mouth so hard against John's that John's teeth pressed sharply against his own lips. He groaned at the force, pulling slightly away, but still desperate for the contact. His hands pulled at the back of Sherlock's shirt to untuck it from his trousers, seeking his skin.

-

Sherlock chuckled lowly into the kiss as he felt John pull away slightly, some level of thought returning as the subtle change. Moving the hand at John's back, he shifted both hands to the other man's hips, quickly opening his eyes to check his surroundings before pushing John abruptly towards the nearest wall, pinning his back against the wallpaper. He bent a little at the knees, bringing their hips in line again as he finally broke the kiss, lips reddened and face flushed, eyes ablaze as he looked at John, allowing his mind to come back online before speaking.

-

"I am not a good person, John," he breathed, his voice heavy, but despite the words it sounded more a promise than a warning. "I will tie you up, I will whip you; I will cut your skin and lick the wounds..." His eyes flicked between John's, pupils blown, breath still fast.

"You should be running, John."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am not a good person, John," he breathed, his voice heavy, but despite the words it sounded more a promise than a warning. "I will tie you up, I will whip you; I will cut your skin and lick the wounds..." His eyes flicked between John's, pupils blown, breath still fast. "You should be running, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: Blood kink, knifeplay, smut.

John let Sherlock push him against the wall without offering any resistance, Sherlock's hands on his hips hot through his clothing. Sherlock pressed their hips together again, making John gasp as the wall behind him gave him no room to pull away, not that he wanted to.

He opened his eyes as Sherlock's lips left his, his eyes barely blinking in time he was so far gone already. Sherlock looked wild looming over him, and John licked his bruising lips in anticipation. He swallowed heavily at Sherlock's words, his hands still caressing the skin of Sherlock's lower back. His heart was hammering and his blood felt too hot in his veins. He -should- be running. But he had no desire to.

"Just," John said in a needy, but teasing, tone, his nervous excitement brimming in his lust filled eyes, as he smirked slightly, "Just don't murder me."

-

Sherlock grinned again, his eyes still boring into John's. "I would never do that..." he breathed, his voice lighter, a little less hard-edged, "you're far too interesting to kill." Sherlock kissed him again, more held back than before, more controlled, breaking away so he could speak again but not giving any ground.

"And I'm not a necrophiliac," he added with a low chuckle, "so I think I'll need you alive."

-

John grinned and kissed Sherlock back, his stomach coiling heatedly as he splayed his fingers across Sherlock's lower back and pulled Sherlock's hips even snugger against his own. He groaned as Sherlock pulled away to speak, but laughed lowly at his words, "I'd certainly enjoy it more that way."

-

He closed his eyes as John pulled him even closer, a soft groan leaving his lips before he spoke.

"Well, technically you'd be dead, so you wouldn't know the difference, but I take your point," he replied, chuckling shortly once more.

"I do mean it, John," he said, falling serious, moving almost imperceptibly against John, unable to keep from pressing him against the wall just a little with every breath. "I will do all that and more."

-

John felt like Sherlock might crush the air out of him with his gaze alone. It was intimidating, and so very predatory, and John couldn't make himself break that gaze. Thoughts flitted around in his head, reminding him quite sternly that Sherlock hadn't even known John was interested in him until that morning, that he was a murderer and telling John point blank that he was going to use John for whatever he wanted, but the little voice had no chance of winning this battle.

He had wanted Sherlock too much for too long, and always had assumed nothing would come of it. To have Sherlock here, pressed against him tortuously close and yet not close enough, and making terrible, delightful, promises, John was completely at his mercy, and didn't want to be anywhere else.

John smirked at him and leaned closer to speak against Sherlock's lips, "Are you going to just keep talking about it, or are you going to-"

-

Sherlock took his cue, capturing John's lips with his own again, crushing him against the wall. He released John's hips, slipping both hands up under his shirt, long fingers examining the musculature under the skin as his hands moved up around John's sides, shoving the shirt unceremoniously out of the way, bunching it under his armpits, the kiss continuing. Sherlock's hands continued over John's back, then his fingers curled, scratching deep lines across the skin as he drew his hands back across his shoulderblades.

-

John groaned into the kiss as Sherlock pushed his shirt out of the way, the heated touch of Sherlock's fingertips against his skin spiking his arousal. He let his own fingers trace the ridge of Sherlock's spine as John kissed back, hungrily sucking at the other man's lip. He hissed in a breath at Sherlock's nails raking down his back, and bucked his hips forward with almost a whimper escaping his throat.

-

John's reactions were overwhelming, beyond anything Sherlock would have dared imagine. It was perfection absolute, and he dragged his nails across John's back again, tracking the same lines as before, growling into the kiss as John bucked against him.

Leaving one hand curled over John's shoulder, he brought the other hand up out from under John's shirt, tracing up his chase between their torsos, coming to rest at the base of his throat. He started to kiss him more slowly, his thumb circling the hollow of John's throat, fingers curling around the side of his neck. He applied only the lightest pressure, a mere facsimile of danger, smiling into the kiss.

He broke the kiss, speaking against John's lips, applying just the slightest pressure against John's trachea with his thumb.

-

"Which turns you on more," he asked in a dark whisper, fingertips caressing the tendons in John's neck, "the fact that you're 'special' and that I would never harm you... or the insistent idea that I still might?"

-

John couldn't help but rock his hips against Sherlock's, his cock straining painfully in his trousers as Sherlock's touches undid John with ease. He had imagined, fantasized, about sex with Sherlock but nothing he'd come up with in his imagination had ever started like -this-.

Before John realized Sherlock's hand missing from his back, he found Sherlock's thumb pressed gently against his windpipe, almost teasing. Sherlock's fingers gripped around the side of his neck and he felt the flutter of fear tremble in his stomach at the implied threat.

He took a deep breath in through his mouth when Sherlock pulled away to speak, his low tone letting the vibrations tickle through John's lips at their close proximity. Sherlock's words made him shudder and John swallowed heavily at the slight increase of pressure against his throat, feeling the way his muscles moved against Sherlock's threatening thumb.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John's voice came out sounding far too thick, his eyelids fluttering shut for a moment. "The idea that you might... is debilitating."

-

"And yet, you're still so hard it's almost painful. To think, I didn't see this at all..." he replied in a murmur, smirking, his lips still against John's.

-

John forced his eyes open to met Sherlock's gaze, his eyes consumed by lust, "I've wanted you for months, of course I'm painfully hard. No idea how you didn't notice. I just assumed you really weren't interested."

-

"I never considered it. Then again, even if I had, I might have dismissed the idea until today..." He was still breathing hard, and he pressed his thumb a little harder against John's trachea. "It's been a stunning twenty-four hours so far, John..." Sherlock breathed, licking his bottom lip again. "Want to continue further?"

-

The increased pressure against his throat made John's already rapid breaths that much choppier, the tight draw of air into his lungs already uncomfortable. His heart pounded in his ears and he looked at Sherlock with palpable desire as he ran his fingers lightly up Sherlock's sides. His voice was husky, half from lust and half from the pressure on his throat, "Oh god, _yes_ , Sherlock."

-

Sherlock grinned once more. Slowly he removed his hand from John's throat, then took a half-step backwards, regarding John for a few short moments before speaking.

"Your room. I'll be there in two minutes."

-

John nodded, surreptitiously trying to work the feeling of pressure out of his throat, "Okay."

He licked his lips and stepped around Sherlock, noticing that his extremities had started to go numb. From the slight deprivation of air or from his crippling level of arousal, he wasn't quite sure. He headed up the stairs.

-

Sherlock watched him go, the grin steady on his lips. After a short reverie, he snapped himself back to action, disappearing into his own room for a minute. At one minute 45 seconds, he appeared at John's doorway, stopping at the threshold.

"Last chance to take the sensible option, John," he offered, leaning against the door frame. "If you have doubts, now is the time to leave."

-

John turned around when he heard Sherlock stop in the doorway. He'd been unable to make himself stop pacing the room for the brief time that he'd been alone, his heart racing in his throat. Sherlock leaned against the doorway and John couldn't help but look him up and down, his gaze taking in Sherlock's lithe form hungrily, his imagination obviously getting away from him as he took a small step forward. "I'm not leaving, Sherlock."

-

He smirked again, standing a little straighter but not stepping forward.

"In that case," he said, voice low again, one eyebrow rising for a moment, then dropping back to neutral, "shirt off. Get on your stomach on the bed."

-

John brought his hands up to work the buttons of his shirt open, staring at Sherlock until they were all undone and then shrugging out of it, letting the garment slip off his arms and onto the floor. The air on his skin, as well as Sherlock's gaze, gave him slight chills as he moved to climb on the bed, watching Sherlock a little nervously as he lay down on his stomach, propped up just a bit on his elbows.

"What are you going to do?" His voice was full of breathless anticipation, and just a little curious uncertainty.

-

"The second half of what I promised earlier," he drawled, stepping towards the bed and pausing. "I'll save the tying up and whipping for later."

Sherlock knelt on the edge of the bed, crawling over to John and straddling his hips. He ran one hand over the striking red lines his fingernails had made earlier with a fond smile.

"How good is your pain threshold?" Sherlock asked, matter-of-factly, still tracing red lines with his fingertips, his delicate fingers dancing over John's back, his words deceiving the innocence of the moment.

-

John turned his head to watch Sherlock climb on the bed, his heart pounding faster at his words. He laid his head back down with a quite moan as Sherlock straddled his hips, the other man's weight settling ominously over him. He felt Sherlock's fingers run down his back and thought idly, and with a smirk, that Sherlock's nails must have left marks.

"I handled the pain from getting shot well enough." Despite the anticipatory tone of his voice, John's throat felt like it wanted nothing more than to choke off his words completely, the muscles in his back tensing ever so slightly where Sherlock traced his skin.

-

"True," Sherlock mused. "This will be nothing compared to that."

Sherlock sat back a little, watching John's back muscles twitching under the skin with amusement. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the centre of John's back between his shoulder blades, humming lightly before sitting up straight again, shifting his weight slightly to get comfortable. He moved his hips a little, ensuring John would not forget the sexual aspect of what he was proposing.

-

John moaned lowly at Sherlock's lips against his skin. He couldn't help but marvel at what was transpiring. He felt a surge of something that felt close to fear, but was far too laced with excitement to be called that, rush through him. He'd assumed from the general dominance of the man that Sherlock would be a force to be reckoned with in the bedroom, but nothing had prepared John for -this-. This sense of danger called out to John like he couldn't believe, his almost-complete trust in Sherlock heightening the thrill.

He couldn't help the jerk of his hips against the bed when Sherlock shifted above him. The reminder that this was ultimately sexual not needed in the least but still overwhelmingly enjoyable. "I can't see what you're going to do. What are you using?" His voice was husky still, almost impatient.

-

"Nine inch filleting knife," he replied, "sterilised, very sharp." Sherlock brandished it, smiling slightly at the glinting metal before returning his attention to John. He pressed the flat of the blade against John's side, smirking as the cold metal touched John's overwarm skin.

-

John let his breath out in a ragged, tremulous sigh, and smirked, "Sterilized. Good to hear."

He jumped slightly at the cold metal against his side, not expecting the touch in that location, and let out a throaty chuckle. "I've done my fair share of imagining what you might do to me in bed, but I never considered this."

-

"Well, I'm not -stupid-," Sherlock chuckled.

"What did you consider then, John?" he asked, curious, as he toyed with the flat and the blunt edge of the knife over John's back, acclimatising him to the sensation of the metal before starting anything in earnest.

-

John bit his lip at the smooth touch of the knife blade gliding across his skin. It made goosebumps erupt down his sides and arms and he shivered, "I considered a -lot- of things, Sherlock," he said with a heated laugh, "Most of them involved you being a biter, sinking your teeth into my shoulder as you took me from behind..."

-

"Oh, that could still be arranged..." he replied enthusiastically, his voice a low rumble. "That can certainly be arranged."

Sherlock leaned forward again, tracing lines with the blunt side of the tip of the knife onto the back of John's neck, applying the slightest bit of pressure as it moved down his spine. "What else did you consider, hm?"

-

John shut his eyes with a breathy sigh at Sherlock's rumbling tone, "God, Sherlock."

He hissed in a sharp breath at the slight snag of the knife's point trailing down his neck, his own words bringing up all the visuals from his past fantasies, "You'd take me standing against the wall, or bent over something. You'd grab me by the neck to push me down."

-

"Not too inaccurate, then," he said with a wry smile, placing his free hand flat against John's right shoulder blade, his thumb rubbing small circles for a few moments before he spoke again.

"I want you to keep describing it. Everything you've been thinking about. And I am going to start. Alright?"

Despite the rising intonation on the last work, it was clear enough that there was really no question at all.

-

"None of my fantasies involved knives or pain, just you being incredibly dominant. I'm not at all disappointed with what I failed to consider though."

John breathed deeply at Sherlock's request that he keep describing his thoughts. It was incredibly arousing to speak the words out loud, and he felt a flutter in his stomach when Sherlock said he'd get started with whatever he was planning with the knife. His mouth suddenly felt dry, but he nodded at the non-question and spoke in a low voice , his lust quite clear, "I imagined you walking in and joining me in the shower, those long fingers of yours wrapping around my cock and stroking as you fucked me from behind, hardly able to breathe through the intensity and the suffocating steam."

-

"Your new ones will, after today," Sherlock breathed lowly, "keep talking."

Licking his lips, Sherlock paused, the anticipation boiling the blood in his veins. The air was thick suddenly, but he kept a clear head; this was not the time to cease control.

He pulled the knife away from John's skin, checking the sharp edge quickly to make sure it was clean, free of burrs. It was, of course. He took care of his knives.

Sherlock hummed lowly as he pressed the curved portion of the blade against John's back, finely honed steel almost scalpel sharp as he cut a line downward, parallel to John's spine. It wasn't deep; enough to break the skin, but not enough to do damage. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as the first pricks of blood appeared at the top of the wound, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

-

John's breath caught as the pressure of the knife down his back gave way to a sharp sting as the shallow slice started to bleed. _Very_ sharp knife, then. It took quite a bit of restraint to keep himself from craning his head to look back to see Sherlock's expression when he heard the satisfied sigh from the other man. With the knife against his skin, he didn't dare make the mistake of moving any more than he could help. He let his breath out in a hiss, and kept talking.

"I think of you showing up at the surgery and locking my office door behind you once you come in. You push me down on my desk to take me, holding your hand tightly against my mouth to keep me quiet."

-

"Mmnn... I'll have to keep that one in mind," he hummed, taking the knife away for a moment to admire the view, before pressing it against John's skin again on the opposite side of his spine, making a mirror image cut, still shallow. "Are you this submissive with everyone, or is it just me...?" Sherlock asked, his voice quiet as he watched the very edge of the knife splitting John's skin.

-

John smiled, sincerely hoping Sherlock was serious about that. He tensed involuntarily at the removal of the blade against his skin in uncertainty as to where it would land next. It sliced among the other side of his spine and he gritted his teeth at the line of stinging pain that followed the knife's movement.

He stifled the sudden chuckle that threatened to escape him at Sherlock's question, still mindful not to move, "God no, no one else. Never appealed to me before meeting you. There's just something about you." He paused, "Now that I think of it, it's probably the murderer vibe. I've always been drawn to danger." He couldn't help but laugh lightly at that, his eyes shut tight against the sting in his back.

-

Sherlock chuckled at that, taking up the knife again, considering his next move while he spoke. " 'Serial killer vibe', please. 'Murderer' sounds so uncouth. I surpassed 'murderer' 28 deaths ago."

Decided, Sherlock pressed the curve of the blade against John's back again, this time near the base of his ribcage, cutting firmly, following the latissimus dorsi outwards, this cut shorter but significantly deeper, blood blooming instantly as the skin was split. Sherlock sighed again, higher, his breath quickening as he drew the knife away, sitting perfectly still as he watched.

-

"Noted." John breathed the word out in a shallow laugh.

The new placement of the knife didn't make him tense this time, but he wasn't anticipating the sudden leap in pain level when the knife bit much deeper in his back and a cry of surprise escaped him, his hands clenching in the blankets underneath him. "Jesus, Sherlock..." His voice betrayed his discomfort but he forced himself to relax again, even as the first drop of blood tickled down his side.

-

Sherlock had to force himself to breathe again as John cried out, the utter glory of the moment threatening to overwhelm. He shifted back, sitting on John's thighs for the moment. Leaning forward, he steadied his knife-bearing hand on the bed, bending down to lap at the fresh cut, groaning deeply as a streak of blood coated his tongue. He licked the length of the short cut, swallowing the blood with a shudder, his breath shaky.


	10. And the wound gets deeper.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock had to force himself to breathe again as John cried out, the utter glory of the moment threatening to overwhelm. He shifted back, sitting on John's thighs for the moment. Leaning forward, he steadied his knife-bearing hand on the bed, bending down to lap at the fresh cut, groaning deeply as a streak of blood coated his tongue. He licked the length of the short cut, swallowing the blood with a shudder, his breath shaky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: Blood kink, knifeplay, smut.

John opened his eyes when Sherlock shifted his weight above him, the initial bite of pain forgotten as his stomach twisted in nervous anticipation of whatever Sherlock was about to do. He saw Sherlock's hand holding the knife brace against the bed as Sherlock leaned over him, and John felt Sherlock's tongue against the deep gash in his back.

He groaned deeply at the pain, at the very thought that Sherlock was licking up his blood, and he buried his face into the pillow for a moment before forcing himself to prop up on his elbows, risking craning his head around to look at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye now that the knife wasn't against his skin. "My god, the way you -look- right now..." His voice was quiet, almost too overwhelmed to be audible.

-

"And the way you taste..." he breathed in reply, looking up to meet John's eyes, blood smeared over his bottom lip as he smiled. Still looking up at John, he ran his tongue along the wound again, groaning, his other hand still tensed on John's lower back.

-

John couldn't muffle the breathy moan that escaped him as Sherlock met his gaze and licked over the cut again, John's skin trembling under the wet, painful, caress. John bit his lip, trying to keep from crying out again and his eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, the visual overpowering.

-

Sherlock sat up again,  sitting back as he gathered his thoughts, licking his lips clean as tried to get his breath to return to normal.

"You have too much salt in your diet," he said with a short chuckle.

-

John let his head fall back to rest on his forearms on the pillow when Sherlock sat back. He felt like he'd been running, his heart beating too fast and his breathing irregular. He laughed deeply at Sherlock's comment, the motion pulling at the cuts on his back and he winced. Once his head had cleared a little he looked back at Sherlock, half smirking, "Might as well get used to it. With the account of takeaway we consume that's unlikely to change."

-

"True," Sherlock agreed with a smirk, glancing over John's back before looking to his face. "Turn over," he said sternly, setting his weight his knees and lifting his hips so that John could move.

-

John smiled and complied, gingerly twisting over to lay on his back, grimacing at the contact of the blanket against the cuts as he settled his weight down on the bed. He was probably getting blood all over, but he didn't care. He looked up at Sherlock and took a deep breath, reaching a hand up to the button over Sherlock's navel, gripping the fabric of the shirt lightly and raising an eyebrow, "Care to take this off yet?"

-

Sherlock glanced down at himself, suddenly reminded that he had a body of his own. He shrugged slightly, placing the knife pointedly on John's stomach as he sat back down on his legs, beginning to unbutton the shirt. Peeling the fabric away, he tugged off the sleeves, dropping the shirt to the floor before returning his attention to John. "Better?"

-

John's eyes followed the knife as Sherlock set it on his stomach, the blade cool on his skin, and his gaze flicked back up to watch Sherlock unbutton and remove his shirt, slowly revealing his pale skin. John lifted his hand up to run his fingers lustfully down Sherlock's chest and the flat plane of his stomach, his voice pitched low with renewed desire, "Oh yes, that's much, much better."

-

Sherlock laughed softly at John's reaction. "Now I have to wonder if this is what you imagined I would look like..."

-

"Close. Very close. But I admit I cheated a bit." John's hands caressed down Sherlock's sides, his hands coming to rest just above his hips. "I pay far more attention to you when all you're wearing is a sheet than you realize."

-

He chuckled again, moving slightly against John's hands. "Fair enough. I suppose I should have expected that." A wry grin crossed his lips. "Any part of me you haven't seen yet?"

-

"I've caught my fair share of generous glimpses of most of you," John returned Sherlock's smile, "But I'm very interested in seeing all of you bare at once."

-

Smirking, Sherlock stood up on the bed, looking down on John for a moment before stepping down onto the floor and stripping himself off, glancing over to John in indication for him to do the same.

-

John watched Sherlock for a moment then hurried to comply, not letting his gaze leave the other man as he worked open his belt and trousers. His breath caught when he lifted his hips to tug his trousers and pants down and the extra weight on his back sent sharp pains through Sherlock's cuts in his skin. He gingerly propped himself up to pull the rest of his clothing off and drop it on the floor, relaxing back on his elbows and looking Sherlock over appreciatively, if a touch impatiently, while biting his lip.

-

Sherlock chuckled darkly at the look of pain on John's face as he moved, stirrings deep in his gut intensifying.

"Good to see you've been enjoying this almost as much as I have..." he noted, glancing over John's body as he settled back over his upper thighs, picking up the knife from where it was fallen onto the bed.

-

John let a shaky breath escape his lips as Sherlock straddled him yet again, his hands moving immediately to touch Sherlock's skin as his eyes roamed over Sherlock's body. "God, I should say so."

His gaze moved to lock onto the knife again, suddenly nervous that he'd be able to watch as Sherlock used it on him in this position. He swallowed thickly then licked his lips, the nervous habit betraying him as he tried to appear only excited.

-

"I want you to watch this time," he said seriously, raising one eyebrow slightly for emphasis. "Only look away when you absolutely have to. Understand?"

Sherlock moved one hand up John's stomach, scratching a line up the centre of his body towards his chest with his thumbnail. Bringing up the other hand, he placed the tip of the knife at the top of the guideline, holding in position until John reacted.

-

John listened to Sherlock's request with eyes a little wider than usual, a slight ripple of tension passing through his expression as his jaw clenched. His stomach fluttered as Sherlock's thumb ran along his skin. His eyes flicked downward at the knife tip pressed promisingly against him, then back up to Sherlock's face. He nodded, a flush already creeping across his face, and spoke quietly as he let his hands fall back to grip the blankets, "I think I'll manage."

He tore his eyes away from Sherlock's and back to the knife.

-

Sherlock smirked, taking a short breath himself before proceeding.

More slowly this time, as deep as the most recent cut on John's back, he dragged the tip of the blade across ( _into_ ) his skin, bringing his other hand up to press down on John's sternum, quenching too much movement. Letting the blade angle down, the long curve cut into John's stomach, stopping only when Sherlock's own body got in the way.

-

John's hands fisted in the blanket as the knife broke his skin and he bit his lip to keep from hissing in pain. He watched the knife for a quarter inch, a half inch, a whole inch, more. His torso trembled and jerked involuntary and Sherlock's other hand came up to hold him down, but John's arms were still shaking and he couldn't seem to stop them, his vision beginning to blur. He let out a mangled cry, and finally let his head fall back, his eyes clenched tightly shut against the sharp pain as he breathed shakily in through his mouth and out through his nose as the knife's progression slowly ceased.

-

"Shhhh..." Sherlock murmured in an exhalation, putting the knife down again and leaning forward, kissing the underside of John's jaw with surprising tenderness. " _That was perfect_ ," he added softy, carefully making sure his body didn't touch John's as he started to kiss down his neck to his chest.

-

John finally got his breathing semi-under control when Sherlock shushed him and started planting kisses down his neck. John didn't remember letting go of the blanket, but he noticed his fingers had tangled themselves in Sherlock's hair at some point and he moaned as Sherlock kissed over a particularly sensitive area on his neck.

-

Smiling to himself at John's reactions, he kissed down his clavicle, over his chest, stopping for a few seconds to lick, then to bite, his right nipple, before shifting down his body further to lap at the new cut down his stomach.

-

John writhed under Sherlock's lips, the sensations intensely pleasurable even though his motion pulled at his injuries. His fingers tightened in Sherlock's hair when Sherlock bit his nipple and he moaned low in his throat, lifting his head up to watch as Sherlock kissed lower. He gasped at Sherlock's tongue on the cut watching him lick. One of his hands shifted lower to grip the back of Sherlock's neck tightly, his voice harsh with the pain, "Fuck, Sherlock. That hurts."

-

"That's the point," Sherlock replied simply, and he stilled, pressing a firm, close-mouthed kiss to the flesh under his lips. Blood smeared across the lower portion of his face, and he moved aside, trailing bloody kisses across John's rib, gentle again as he kissed the unpained skin.

-

"I _know_ ," John said futilely, not meaning it as complaint, just needing to say it. He whimpered quietly at the kiss against the cut, looking down still to watch as Sherlock kissed over to the side. John's fingers relaxed in Sherlock's hair, actually feeling for the texture of it between his fingers instead of gripping for stability.

-

"Still want me?" Sherlock asked, looking up, his voice low, a dribble of blood trickling down his chin.

-

 

John took in Sherlock's blood smeared face and his question and swallowed back a groan, nodding once, his own face full of lust.

"Desperately."

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a cleaned-up roleplay transcript. http://archiveofourown.org/works/383490 is the finished 'fic'. I just really loved John's thoughts etc, and so wanted to share the 'raw' version as well.


End file.
